


Spinning Together

by SpartanGuard



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Drum Corps, F/M, Modern AU, colorguard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:51:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7420624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpartanGuard/pseuds/SpartanGuard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan loves colorguard. So does Killian Jones. What they don't love is each other...until they end up featured together in their drum corps' show one summer, and discover they have far more in common than they thought. (CS colorguard/drum corps AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spinning Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shipsxahoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipsxahoy/gifts).



> A real quick explanation for anyone unfamiliar with the activity: colorguard is probably better known as “those flag girls in the marching band” (but there are plenty of guys, too!). Outside of OUAT, it’s one of my biggest obsessions I've been performing and coaching for a long time. It’s not just flags: it’s also dance, rifles, sabers (both fake, of course), and a lot of acting. In the winter, we take it inside, by ourselves, and call it winterguard.
> 
> In this story, Killian and Emma are performing with a drum and bugle corps, which is a next-level, more intense marching band, with only brass in the hornline. It’s very competitive—they tour the country all summer doing so—and amazing to watch.
> 
> All the performing ensembles in this story are real, but I have no affiliation with them—just a fan.

There was something welcoming about the chaos around her: the chatter of old friends reuniting, the near-constant rhythm of sticks on pads, a few tested horn notes reverberating off the ceiling.

She breathed deep, as if she could smell the ruckus. Yup, this was where she belonged; this was home.

“Emma! Over here!” Elsa’s voice cut through the din and her own thoughts, beckoning her to a corner of the gym her friends had staked out. She threw her duffle on the growing pile, hugged her best friend, and stood next to her other best friend-slash-roommate, Mary Margaret, and joined in their conversation.

“We’re taking stock of the new kids,” Mary Margaret said, a kind but competitive twinkle in her eye.

“Oh, so I get to do that now?” Emma replied lightheartedly. She was only one year removed from that herself, and she was only here in the first place because of those two.

See, Emma’s passion was colorguard. She’d fallen into it in high school mainly as a way to stay out of trouble—something that tended to happen with otherwise unoccupied foster kids—and ended up falling in love with it. Elsa, her foster “cousin,” was already on the team at another school, so their shared interest helped Emma bond with the whole family (which included her foster mother, Ingrid, and Ingrid’s extended family). After high school, she joined Boston’s independent winterguard, Blessed Sacrament, marching their A-class guard while Elsa was on the World-class team. During one long rehearsal weekend, when both guards had shared downtime, Elsa and a few others showed Emma a video of Boston Crusaders Drum and Bugle Corps. And she was hooked.

Literally—they’d done a pirate show that season, and one of the male leads went so far as to wear a hook for most of the show, after “losing” his hand in an opening scene. She’d never seen anyone able to throw a blade toss on saber so high as he did, and the entire production was just incredible. She knew she had to march. So she did.

And here she was, on a weekend off from Sac’s World guard (which she made this year) to try out for her second summer at Boston. Marching drum corps was hard and draining, but beyond rewarding when, at the end of the season, that one perfect performance comes together and brings the audience to their feet.

She got a little more settled in their corner and they began to discuss who all they saw coming in and out of the gym. 

“Oh, Robin’s back—but he has a contra? Damn, good for him.” 

“Belle! Oh, yay, I love Belle!” 

“Dammit, Victor’s back.” “Well, he’s Ruby’s boyfriend, even if she’s staff.” “I know, but he’s creepy.” 

“Elsa, didn’t you say Kristoff was going to audition?” “I thought he was…” 

“Damn, check out that fresh meat.”

Emma uttered the words without even thinking what she was saying when she saw what she could only describe as sex on two legs stalking across the gym towards where most of the guard auditionees were gathered. He was tall, with a shock of dark, disheveled hair that matched the clearly manicured scruff on his sharp jaw. He looked the epitome of “bad boy” in his leather jacket and ripped jeans, but the WGI t-shirt underneath brought the look back down to earth. The friendly, almost-cocky smirk on his face made it apparent he knew what he looked like, too, and Emma vaguely began to understand why drum corps romance happened.

“Seriously, Emma?” Elsa seemed shocked.

The exclamation pulled Emma from fantasyland. “What?” Now she was confused.

“That’s Killian Jones!” Mary Margaret informed her in a high-pitched whisper. “I didn’t know he was coming back!”

Oh,  _ that _ Killian Jones. She’d heard his name mentioned...well, all the time last summer. He was the hooked pirate—the one who played a huge part in her even coming here. Everyone seemed to love him, but he hadn’t marched the previous summer, so Emma figured he aged out.  _ Apparently not _ .

And he was coming right their way. Her traitorous heart started beating quicker, but she wasn’t sure if she was attracted more to his looks or his skills; she’d seen and heard all too well what he could do with a weapon.

She looked on as he exchanged warm greetings with her friends, both of whom were happy to see him after their time apart, and tried to quash down her starstruck feelings when Elsa introduced them.

“Killian, this is my cousin Emma Swan; Emma, this is—”

“—Killian Jones,” she breathed. ( _ So much for not being starstruck _ ; his British accent threw her off. She knew he was from England, but knowing it and hearing it were two different things.)

He chuckled. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me?”

She blushed, both at her awkwardness and his surprisingly cocky reply. “Uh, yeah; these guys wouldn’t shut up about you last summer.”

“It’s always nice to make an impression.” He winked. ( _ Winked? Really? _ ) “Best of luck this weekend, love.” He nodded at her and her friends before heading off to see some other people.

Well, that was anticlimactic. She’d figured he was either a humble nerd or a total diva; she wasn’t expecting rockstar.

“He’s a total sweetheart, Emma; you’ll see,” Mary Margaret assured her. But Emma wasn’t so sure—first impressions tended to leave a pretty deep mark on her.

Once the audition camp got underway, she could see firsthand that he could definitely back up his attitude: he was even more breathtaking to watch in person. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone move so gracefully, toss so solidly, and perform so convincingly, all at the same time. It almost wasn’t fair.

(But she knew she was no slouch, either: childhood dance lessons had actually managed to give her some grace to live up to her last name, and while she was very good at saber, her strength lay in rifle and that double turnaround 7 toss she’d been perfecting. She caught Killian staring at her once while she was spinning during a break;  _ yeah, let him watch _ .)

Rumor had it that there would be a few featured roles in the show, so while an audition typically put more pressure on potential new members, all the vets were feeling it, too, and were on top form the whole weekend. 

“Lookin’ good, Emma!” Ruby, the colorguard caption head (and also her teammate on Sac) whispered on a break. “Get it!”

Emma just smirked back; there was no way she’d get one of those spots, but she could at least try. Everyone knew that Regina, who had been marching there since she was old enough, would get one—and not just because her mother was the corps’ director; she was legitimately one of the best there. And Killian was easily the most talented male. So Emma could at least make a case for a feature next year, which would be her last.

The camp flew by way too fast, and all of a sudden, it was Sunday afternoon. She was sore and tired, but in the absolute best way, and already looking forward to the callback camp in December. She and Mary Margaret were loading their bags into the trunk of Emma’s old yellow bug, to head back to their apartment in Boston, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Nice work this weekend, Swan.” The compliment fell sweet from Killian’s lips, laced with his accent.

“Uh, thanks,” she stammered, shocked that  _ he _ was giving  _ her _ a compliment. “You weren’t too bad yourself.” (She tried to play it cool. Even if she was starting to think he fell too far on the side of arrogant, he was still  _ KILLIAN JONES _ . But she failed.)

“I know.” ( _ Hypothesis confirmed _ .) “See you in April.”

“You’re not coming to the December camp?”

“Nah; can’t justify the flight. So they already gave me a contract.” She couldn’t tell if his self-confident smirk was in an attempt to impress her or challenge her.

“Well, good for you.” Whichever it was, she wouldn’t bite; she’d had her share of assholes  for one lifetime. “Have a safe trip.” 

“You too,” he replied with a mock salute before turning and walking toward the shuttle taking kids back to the airport. 

(And she totally didn’t admire the way he looked with a backpack slung over one shoulder, or the way those sweatpants hugged his backside. Nope. Totally didn’t.)

She shook her head, slammed the trunk closed, and slid into the front seat, hoping the image of his bright blue eyes would shake away, too. One thing was for sure: it was going to be a long summer, and it was still so far away.

(It didn’t help that, at the December camp, Ruby pulled both Emma and Regina aside at the end of the weekend, to let them know that they both had featured spots that summer. Regina was happy; Emma was floored. They’d be playing the Evil Queen and the Princess, respectively, in Boston’s fairy tale-inspired show, “Once Upon A Time.” The girls hugged each other, excited for the opportunity to work together.

“Oh, and just so you know, Killian will be playing the Prince—the Princess’s true love.”

_ Oh. Okay _ .)

(Someone told him, unsurprisingly, because when he found her on the floor after WGI World class finals—Sac finished 5th and Mayflower, the winterguard he marched in the UK, was 7th—he gave her that cocky smile and brushed a bit of confetti out of her hair. “So, I hear I’m your true love.”

“Yeah, they tell me that. I don’t buy it.” 

“We’ll see about that.”)

Yeah, it was going to be a looooong summer.

* * *

 

Before she knew it, the semester was over, finals were done, and it was time for move-ins: a whole month of nothing but spinning and learning the show. In other words: heaven.

If it was anything like last year, it would go by way too fast, but she was more than ready to dive in and focus on guard and guard only.

She was getting settled into her dorm room at the school they’d taken over for camp, tossing her stuff on the top bunk over Elsa’s, when a sharp knock hit the open door frame. 

“Morning, ladies.” Really? She didn’t even get a chance to get settled before Killian was annoying her?

“Hey, Killian,” she and Elsa replied, though Emma’s was a bit less enthused.

“Once you’re settled, lunch is at noon and then flag block at 1. Make sure you’re not late.” His all-business approach was surprising, given all of their past encounters.

“Who died and made you captain?” she (attempted to) joke back.

“Well, I hope Ruby didn’t die, because it was her.” And  _ there  _ was the smirk.

“Congrats!” Elsa gushed. “You’ll be great!” Emma just smiled and nodded.  _ Well, this just got a whole lot more interesting _ ; she could only hope Elsa was right.

“You ready for this, Swan?” His eyebrow was quirked to match the challenge in his tone. She couldn’t quite tell if he was trying to get a rise out of her, or if it was some weird flirtation.

“Please. I was born ready,” she scoffed, which was immediately followed by internal cringing at her lame response.

“Can’t wait,” he replied with a wink, and then disappeared from the doorway. She let out a sigh and went back to fitting her sheets on the bed. Elsa, surprisingly, giggled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Whatever.”

They ate lunch with Mary Margaret and her boyfriend, David, who marched baritone before being selected as the conductor this season. Emma was relieved to hear that Mary Margaret was also a captain, and knew she'd be great at it—she was a natural leader. Then they cleaned up, filled their water jugs, slapped on some sunblock, and headed out to flag block. 

Ruby was in a staff meeting, so they got started with the captains, who actually worked incredibly well together. Killian seemed a natural in the role, too, and he and Mary Margaret worked almost seamlessly together. Once Ruby got back, the two assisted others where needed, and Emma noticed that he was just as good a teacher as Mary Margaret (who was actually studying to become one). 

Until he got to her, of course.

“Impressive angle, Swan. But I bet you can do better.”

She glared.  _ I’ll show you how good my damn angles can be _ .

Five minutes later, a cocky whisper broke her concentration: “Told you.”

The rest of the block passed in a similar manner; she was thrilled when dinner break rolled around and made a beeline for the cafeteria before anyone could say anything to her. She was already tired and sore from trying to keep Killian off her back, channelling that aggression into technique, and the season had just started.

At dinner, she had to ask: “What’s Killian’s deal?”

“What do you mean?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Is he always so...aggravating?”

“He just...has high expectations, of himself and everyone else. But he also wants to see them succeed.”

“Well, Ms. Co-Captain, can you tell him to lay off?”

“I would if you hadn’t looked your best today.”

“What?” Emma was surprised;  _ what the hell? I always look good _ .

“Emma, you sometimes tend to ease up in block. He doesn’t know what you look like on the field; maybe he just wanted to see some of that. You are pretty much the star of the show, after all. He’s still trying to figure you out, too.”

Or maybe he figured her out too well.

For the next few days, she only had to deal with him in block, and even then, only half the time once the weapons split off—he was on saber and she was on rifle to start the show, and even though they’d started learning drill, they hadn’t gotten to a point where they were near each other yet. 

She was actually really excited for the show. It was based on fairy tales, yes, but with a twist: princess meets prince, they fall in love, but then the Evil Queen kidnaps the princess and places the prince under a sleeping curse. It’s up to the princess to free them both and defeat the queen.

Regina would be perfect as the queen, she knew—she just had that fierceness about her. And of course, Killian was perfect for the prince: he could spin insanely well and was easily the most attractive guy on the guard. And Emma supposed she had the right look for the princess, and knew she was one of the stronger rifles, but she didn’t know if she was the best. So maybe that was why Killian’s nitpicking got to her, but she could only use that as motivation.

She was so dedicated to perfecting her choreography during any breaks that she barely noticed when they finally did meet up.

“Hey, watch where you’re spinning.”

Of course he said that right after she’d tossed, ruining her concentration and making her drop what had been a damn good 6. She glared, he smirked; that seemed to be their norm.

(And she was definitely ignoring how well that white T-shirt fit him, with its v-neck and bicep-hugging sleeves, or those shorts covering the tops of his skinny legs. Nope, didn't even notice it.)

“Maybe you should watch where you’re going.”

“I was. You’re on my dot.”

She glanced at her dot sheet;  _ dammit, wrong 45 _ . She moved without a word and continued spinning, but not before taking a glance over at him. Whatever he was doing had to be solo work, as it was incredibly intricate—but he, of course, made it look easy. Her own brief solo was definitely harder than the rest of the choreography, but she was struggling to get it to look that effortless. (But it was so dang cool that she was determined to get it—Peter, the rifle tech, wrote some amazing choreography.)

To start the show, she was with the rifle section on one side of the field, while he was with the sabers on the opposite, and Regina was with the flags and dancers in the back as the rest of the corps played the opening tune, which was parts of the introduction from  _ Into the Woods _ mixed with strains of “True Love’s Kiss” from  _ Enchanted  _ (a recurring musical theme in the show and, eventually, the closing tune).

They’d learned just about all of the opener at this point and were nearing the transition into the second piece (the main theme from  _ Swan Lake _ ). This was where the Prince and Princess meet and fall in love, much to the chagrin of the Evil Queen, who then comes to mess shit up (for reasons explained through narration in the opener—something about a curse, or the princess being key in her defeat...Emma would figure it out eventually).

Seeing as this would be the first big emotional impact of the show, Ruby came down from her usual post on the tower to help stage their meeting—not that either Peter or Mulan, the saber tech, needed help with choreography, but more so because the two of them had different enough styles that they needed mediation.  _ That’s fitting _ , Emma thought, considering her rocky-at-best relationship with her scene partner.

With Ruby’s help, they orchestrated what Emma could only call an adorable duet, starting with weapons and morphing into dance, lifts and all. That is, it would be adorable, if Emma would stop messing it up.

It wasn’t that she’d never done a lift before; just not with him, and not this particular jumping lift—think  _ Dirty Dancing _ . She could handle him picking her up just fine—and there were a few of those, where she just posed and he held her—but this one required her total engagement to execute. The first few times, she fell, taking him with her. After that, she figured out how to roll to the side without affecting him (well, too much). But there was some sort of mental block stopping her from succeeding. 

She insisted on trying it again during their next water break, but the same thing kept happening.

“Emma,” he huffed, equally exasperated (and, oddly, using her first name. She was surprised to find she liked how it sounded on his lips). “Try something new, darling—it’s called trust.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she spat back as she stood, brushing the turf turds off her legs.

“You’re trying to do the whole move yourself instead of letting me support you. You don’t have to arch your back so much; I’ve got you. You do your part and I’ll do mine.”

He had a point, much as she hated to admit it. “Okay. One more try.”

That time, she let herself feel the strength in his arms as he grabbed her waist and lifted her up. She thought about arching less and anchoring her left arm to his shoulder, as instructed (okay, so it wasn’t full  _ Dirty Dancing _ ).

And it stuck. Hell, she felt like she could stay there forever. An involuntary grin took over her face; a glance down at Killian showed the same, but for the first time free of any attitude—just genuinely happy.

He gently guided her back down to the ground, letting his hands linger on her hips for a moment. “I don’t mean to upset you, Swan, but I think we make quite the team.”

The honesty in his bright blue eyes was jarring, and she was left speechless for a moment, her heart racing at their proximity—until she realized his eyes were almost the same shade as the blue Gatorade waiting for her in the shade. “I’m just gonna...get some...water…” she stammered, awkwardly stepping away from him. 

_ Shit _ , she thought to herself as she walked away.  _ That wasn’t supposed to happen _ . Maybe there was more to Killian Jones than she thought, because she hadn’t just read sincerity in his gaze there—it was something else: that fire to fight through adversity and heartache and brokenness; a fire fueled by passion.

She realized that wasn’t the first time she’d caught that from him, but that wasn’t what freaked her out: it was knowing she had the same motivation, and maybe the reason they clashed was because they were more similar than she’d like.

_ Whatever _ . She couldn’t let that distract her. They weren’t even done with the show, let alone on the road. She couldn’t—couldn’t let herself—think about things like that.

* * *

Camp continued and they learned the rest of the show without any other close moments; she was nothing but professional when it came to working with him. Oh, she could certainly act heartbroken when the Evil Queen ripped her away from her love, and more so when she discovered the “sleeping curse” he'd been placed under (actually just a prop dais). Stage kisses were nothing, and the more she got used to working with him, the stronger their duets—the one in the beginning, and the ending flag and dance feature in the closer—became. But hell no, she was not getting attached—she was here to do colorguard and have fun with her friends and grow as a performer. Right?

(Uh huh, sure. Said the girl who also couldn't help but continue to notice the drive and emotion behind everything Killian did, including motivating it in others. She told herself  _ it’s just his job as captain; he just wants his age out to be good _ , but also wondered if maybe he just wanted to see everyone else succeed, too. And she couldn't fault him there.)

(She asked David about him one night, seeing as the two were close friends and bunk mates. 

“Well, I know he had a rough year—that's why he didn't march last summer. Something with his family? I didn't want to pry.” So that was all she got.

Actually, it was all she needed to know they were way too similar.)

Too soon, they were at the end of move ins, trying on their costumes for the preview performance for family and friends. Emma’s pink dress (with its hidden layer, for a quick change at the end of the show) was nothing she’d ever normally wear, but it was perfect for the show, and she had to admit—she totally felt like a princess. 

“You cut quite the figure in that dress.” Killian’s now-familiar voice, filled with its usual swagger, cut into her warmup, making sure she could still spin in the costume. 

Without looking at him, she just as assuredly replied, “I know.” And then she turned around and looked, almost gasping when she saw him. 

She'd seen the drawings, but seeing it in person and on him was something else entirely. Grey leggings and a black vest hugged his trim form, and the top was cut low enough to show off that chest hair that regularly teased her on the days it was hot enough for the guys to rehearse shirtless. Over top, a long, light brown coat moved with him, and boot spats completed the regal look. 

“What do you say, Swan? Do I pass for Prince Charming?”

“More like Prince Obnoxious,” she joked back, but her nerves for the performance (and just how unsettled his appearance had made her) prevented any real malice from coloring her words. 

“Close enough,” he threw back with a chuckle. “Want to practice a bit?”

“Yeah.” As they went over their duets, she had to admit there was something a bit magical about having the costumes on. The lift felt even more amazing, with her skirt (tastefully) swishing around in time with his jacket.

“It finally feels real,” she commented when he set her down. 

“Aye; it’ll be nice to finally have an actual audience.” She hummed in agreement; she was nervous, but the good kind. “Don’t tell Cora, but she’s not exactly...motivational.”

Emma stifled a giggle as she thought about the severe corps director; the woman knew what she was doing, but other than Regina, couldn’t really related to the kids (and even just barely with Regina).

“So, anyone coming to watch you?” he asked casually.

“Yeah.” Ingrid would be there, as would Elsa’s parents and sister. “Do you have any family coming?”

To her surprise, he looked away, scratching behind his ear. “Um, no.” He was uncharacteristically somber. “There’s none to come.”

“Oh, sorry.” Well, now she felt like an ass, especially remembering what David told her. (And having been in that position far too many times herself in her youth.)

He spent another moment staring off into space, before apparently shaking it off—literally—and placing a forced smile on his face. “Well, maybe having someone in the audience will help with your performance.”

_ Excuse me? _ “Uh, what?”

“You know, it’ll help you really get into it.”

“I get into it fine.” She loved performing this show and the character she got to portray—it was a great way to be someone else for 12 minutes. Someone she’d never be, but that didn’t matter.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“You practice with me every day, Jones. You know I’m not half-assing it.” She was pissed he’d even suggest it.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt you’re committed, Swan. But emotionally? You’re still closed off from the show.”

_ And with good reason _ . She might love the character and the story, but she knew it was fantasy. NO one had ever hated her, but...no one had ever loved her like that either.

“You’ve never been in love, have you?”

Damn him for reading her so well. But she didn’t want to answer that, so she tossed it back.

“Have you?”

His blue gaze bore into hers, and the corner of his mouth ticked up; much as she realized she was an open book to him, he was becoming more clear to her and she knew she’d caught him.

“Fair enough,” he told her, cocky front back in place. “I’ll see you in warmup.”

She made a point to stand on the opposite side of the warmup block from him that night, sticking to Mary Margaret and Elsa (who she thought looked adorable in their lavender dresses that matched her pink one).

The performance went off without a hitch, and knowing there were people there cheering her on let her put a bit more of herself into the show—as much as she could, really, without pulling up some of her more painful memories.

After the show, he only gave her one comment in passing: “Good, but I know you can do better.”

She wasn’t sure if she was going to punch him when all this was over, or kiss him.

Because as much as she was loathe to admit it, what he said had an impact on her...and he was definitely growing on her.

* * *

 

Finally, it was time to take this show on the road. The next day, they packed up and headed to their first competition in Ohio, then to a few more there before heading on to Indiana and then slowly working their way around the country. 20-some performances over the course of 7 weeks. Emma was so ready.

The corps had solid performances at each competition, scoring pretty well and placing them in the top few spots. They continued to rehearse every day, constantly getting better.

But Emma was still having trouble breaching that emotional wall in her performance, and it wasn’t just Killian on her about it—the judges observed it, too, consistently, and commented on it in their feedback. And until she was able to really, truly sell it, the show would be held back from reaching its potential.

Ruby and Elsa had tried to talk to her about it, but gotten nowhere. So she rehearsed non-stop on her own, even on free days and after shows, to the point that the choreography was flawless. But she couldn’t figure out how to take it to the next level, a point that was frustrating not only her, but Killian, too.

To his part, he had no trouble selling it; even from her spot on the field next to him, it was amazing to watch. And it had earned him quite a fan following. More than once had she heard some fans in the parking lot talking about “the hot guy on Crusaders”, and a few had even asked for photos. She’d laugh at it—and the way he blushed every time—if she didn’t think he deserved it, but he so did.

(And she thought it was cute.)

(Wait, what?)

A week and a half into tour and after a performance in Michigan, she was in a dark corner of the lot, going over the choreography for the battle scene between the princess and the Evil Queen in the third movement (set to a nice, angry, victorious Shostakovich piece) after another less-than-stellar performance on her part. It was a little hard to see her saber there, but she didn’t need it long: in the show, the princess tries to defeat the queen with her prince’s “sword,” but when that fails, she goes back to her trusty “gun.”

By this point, the choreography wasn’t the issue. She was even practicing it with the music, playing from her tinny phone speaker, but even she could feel how stiff her portrayal was.  _ What am I missing? _

“What’s your motivation?”

Killian’s voice, deep and tired, spoke over the low volume of the music.

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you do this? Why are you here?” She could hear frustration simmering under the surface.

“Because…” She suddenly realized she had no good answer—at least, not a cheesy one. “Because I love it.” ( _ Not a lie, but not great _ .)

“We all love it, Swan; that’s why we’re here. But why do you spin? Why do you perform? I know there’s a reason.”

She knew he was pushing her. Not to get her to break, but to figure her out, and maybe get her to figure it out herself. She knew damn well why she did this: this was home, the first one she’d ever had and she didn’t know where she’d be without it.

But, as always, she wasn’t about to tell him that, so instead turned it to him.

“Why do you?”

His jaw clenched, and even in the dark, she could see the glint of fire that always seemed to be burning in his eyes.

He swallowed. “My brother died last year.” It was barely a whisper but she heard it loud as cannon fire. “And my parents are gone, so this is all I have. This is my family and my home. That’s why I’m here, that’s why I perform: it’s all I have. So you can’t tell me that you just ‘love it’ when I know there’s more to it, Emma.” There was a quiet anger behind his words that, combined with general frustration, made her snap, despite his depressing admission.

“You’re not the only heartbroken orphan around here, Jones. My parents left me at the side of the road as a newborn and then I floated from foster home to foster home because no one wanted to keep me. I didn’t stay anywhere, I didn’t have any family or friends—I didn’t matter to anyone—until I found guard, so yeah, this is my home, too.”

An awkward silence fell as they both absorbed the other’s admission. Her heart did break for his loss; she could only imagine what it was like to have family, only to lose them. She simply hadn’t known that kind of feeling...ever; and stuff like this—the pain shining in his eyes right now—made her convinced that her lack of that wasn’t completely a bad thing.

“I’m sorry to hear about your brother.”

He nodded. “Thanks. And I’m sorry to hear about your situation. But, Emma,” he stepped toward her. “Use that.”

“Use what?” She didn’t see how any of that applied to a love story, when if anything, it was the opposite.

“That anger. And don’t try to deny it when I just saw it,” he added when she opened her mouth to protest. “Think about your character, Emma. Why is she trying to defeat the queen?”

“Because she cursed her love.”

“Is that all?”

No, it wasn’t. The queen took her love and her livelihood—the one person who wanted her, and her freedom, and Emma knew what it was like to have neither. She knew she’d been dealt a crappy hand in life, but guard had been her chance to get away from that, and she’d fight tooth and nail to keep it.

“Can you play the music?” she asked quietly, picking up her saber. Killian nodded and started it on her phone.

For the first time, she didn’t just go through the motions—she felt everything, and took all those years of anger (at her parents, at the system) and put it into her performance, even if there was only one person there to watch. When she picked up her rifle, she felt it even more, because that was hers.

There was a moment in her rep where she completely forgot about Emma the lost girl, about the corps, about the fact that she was hot and sweaty and surrounded by bus exhaust at some random school in I-Don’t-Care, MI, and was entirely focused on the princess defeating the queen: that if she could get this and push through, she’d win.

She reached the end of her solo—her double turnaround 7, nailing the crap out of the catch—and stared up into the night sky, daring anyone to cross her.

Clapping pulled her from her reverie and back into the moment. “I knew you had it in you, Swan.” His usual smirk was plastered across his face, but behind it was that genuine warmth and pride she’d been seeing more and more often. (And, despite her best efforts, she found she liked it.)

She just blushed and started to gather her things to load them on the equipment truck, not including the saber he was currently toying with. That had felt good—really good; better than any other moment prior when she was performing, and she knew it would be tenfold to do that in front of an audience.

“Killian.” That was probably the first time she’d ever called him by his first name. “Thank you.”

He stopped mid-spin to look over at her, a flirtatious grin overtaking him. With his free hand, he tapped against his lips. “Perhaps gratitude is in order?”

_ Seriously? _ But for the first time, she was more amused by his act than annoyed, especially given what they’d just discussed. “Please,” she scoffed. “You couldn’t handle it.”

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”

Well, Emma Swan never backed down from a challenge—and, honestly, she was curious. A quick glance showed that no one was around or looking in their direction. So without any further prompting, she dropped her equipment, grabbed his t-shirt, and hauled his lips to hers.

Emma had been kissed before in her life, by boys here and there, but never, ever like this: it was sticky and sweet, passionate and gentle, angry and caring and joyful and aggressive and  _ real _ . His shirt was soft under her fingers where his scruff was rough against her cheeks, and his hands—firm and calm at her waist and in her hair—were solid reminders that  _ this is actually happening _ .  _ Holy shit  _ were the only words that came to mind.

Too soon, she remembered where they were and pulled back, panting.

(He was, too. That fact made her way too happy.)

“That was…” he started, in between breaths.

“A one-time thing.” It had to be, she told herself. Just an experiment—something to fuel her performance. That's what he’d been trying to do here, anyway—right?

She took a step back. “Don’t follow me. Wait 5 minutes; take some tosses or something.”

“As you wish.”.

(She smirked. He saw.  _ Of course he’d reference my favorite movie. Bastard _

He definitely started calling her Princess Buttercup after that.

So, naturally, she countered with Dread Pirate Roberts.)

(And she ignored what the whole thing might mean about them, because even if that had been a mind-blowing kiss, and even if they started working off of each other more after that, it was just a kiss.

Right?)

(Thank God he sat in the back of the bus. Away from her.)

* * *

Once they got into the swing of things, tour became something of a blur. There were some days where she probably couldn’t tell you what state she was in, or where they were performing, or the last time she did laundry. 

(Actually, that one wasn’t true—she and Killian had become laundry buddies on their scant free days. It turned out he was really, really good at folding t-shirts.

And, you know, everything.)

The haze became familiar, and even though it was befuddling at times, she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else: doing what she loved, all day, every day, with her favorite people on earth. It was cliche, but the corps really was a huge family: she had friends in every section; inside jokes abounded; and everyone got pretty used to seeing everyone else in as little clothing as possible.

(Well, okay, it wasn’t a normal family.)

And once she finally got over her mental block in connecting with the show, it became easier for her to apply her past experiences to the rest of it: that ache to be accepted and loved when she was a kid came out when the princess and the prince first meet; that underlying pain at being abandoned showed itself when the queen ripped her away; and at the end, when she and the prince reunite? 

She’d never tell anyone, but that was hope for the future. That maybe she might learn to not be so closed off, and experience whatever it was that made Mary Margaret light up whenever she looked at David (which was, you know, a lot, considering he was the drum major for the entire corps).

After-show practice became something of a tradition for her and Killian, helping to solidify their duets, work out any kinks that popped up, and just build their connection—which was actually pretty easy, once she stopped fighting it. 

They hadn’t talked about the kiss, but that bit of tension underlay everything they did. A heated gaze, a wink while crossing paths, that one time he tickled her during their lift (but made sure he caught her). Emma was determined to not make it more than it seemed, afraid to ruin their building friendship...and knowing he’d be back in England come summer’s end.

(She might be willing to open herself up, but not to that kind of heartbreak just yet.)

It came to a peak after the Atlanta regional: the corps easily had their best run through of the whole season to date, top to bottom, every single member. And the score showed it: 5th place. Everyone was buzzing with excitement, high off adrenaline from their performance afterward. Emma was practically shaking: she’d put her all into that one, knowing it was the last big show before Championships in a week and a half, and wanting to get herself in the right mindset for that level of competition. (With Killian at her side, it was easy.)

Emma was talking with Mary Margaret and David when suddenly a strong pair of arms grabbed her from behind, lifting and spinning her. She giggled and tensed in surprise, but Killian’s chuckle in her ear made her relax. He set her down and spun her to facing him.

“You were brilliant, Swan! Absolutely bloody brilliant tonight!”

“Uh, same with you, Jones; you  _ nailed  _ that toss.” They continued to gush and shout over each other, until Killian had enough and just pulled her into a giant hug, which she didn’t hesitate to reciprocate; actually, that was foreign territory for her—physical affection wasn’t one of her fortes, but with him, it seemed to be natural.

He pulled back after a (hot, sticky, hairspray-scented) moment, and stared at her with a look of absolute adoration and awe; one that she quickly realized she returned, because  _ bloody hell I’m hugging Killian Jones and we’re best friends and OMG his LIPS _ . Her eyes briefly darted away from his to look at his smiling mouth; he did the same to her. Suddenly, they were very close; if she leaned in just a little bit—

“Hey, guys, they’re loading the buses.”  _ Dammit, David _ . She stepped out of Killian’s embrace, noting that he, too, was more-than-slightly unsatisfied, but the moment was dead; killed by her wannabe big brother over there (but that’s probably what happens when you almost kiss the guy you definitely don’t like in front of your roommate’s boyfriend).

“Better get my equipment loaded, then,” he said. 

“Yeah, I need to get out of this dress before it smells worse than it already does.” They shared an oh-so-brief laugh before heading their separate ways.

It wasn’t until she was out of costume and back on the bus that she realized just how disappointed she was to have not kissed him. She was still riding high from the show once they pulled out and headed to their next rehearsal site (somewhere in North Carolina, or was it Virginia?), but that was kind of bringing her down, and she couldn’t stop it.

“Em, you okay?” Elsa was giving a worried look from the seat next to Emma. 

_ Shit, pull it together _ . “No, I’m fine.”  _ Totally fine. Totally not fantasizing kissing a guy on this bus...dammit _ .

“It’s Killian, isn’t it?”

Emma looked at her best friend incredulously.  _ Have I seriously been that obvious? _ “How’d you guess that?” (She wouldn’t straight up admit that it was correct.)

“Emma, come on. Everyone can see it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I think the drumline has a betting pool going.”

She groaned.  _ Typical drummers _ . But...she also needed some advice. “What do I do?”

“Just go back there and talk to him.”

“What, now?” She glanced at her phone; it was almost midnight, totally dark, and they were on the road in the middle of Georgia. Not really ideal for a conversation about potential relationship status.

“Yes! You’re going to sit up half the night wondering if you don’t.”

Elsa had her there. She sighed. “Okay. Be back in a bit.”

Using her phone, she carefully picked her way to the back of the bus, making sure to not step on any feet sticking out into the aisle. She noticed that Regina was curled up with Robin; that was probably one of the best-kept secrets in the corps, as the two were crazy for each other but Regina knew her mother wouldn’t approve. (And because everyone wanted to subvert Cora on just that one thing, they all gladly complied.)

Eventually, Emma found herself near the back row, where Killian had claimed his seat right away. And, of course, he was asleep, adorably snoring with his mouth open. She smiled a bit at that, though it fell when she saw his seatmate, Tink, curled up next to him. She knew they were best friends and that was it—Tink was dating another member of her section, the mellophones—but it still shot a pang of jealousy through Emma.

Disheartened, she tiptoed back to her seat at the front, only stepping on one person on the way. Thankfully, Elsa was asleep, so she didn’t have to divest her defeat.

_ Maybe it’s for the best _ . Hadn’t she been saying she didn’t need any distractions? And that he was just leaving at the end of the season anyway? There were only a handful of days left of tour; maybe this was just a sign that she needed to focus in on the show and the show alone.

(At least, that was what she told herself as she drifted off to sleep. But the blue eyes and ginger scruff in her dreams said otherwise.)

* * *

She stepped off the bus the next day determined to be nothing but steel emotion, if that was a thing: perform the crap out of her show, heart and soul, but that was it. No interruptions. Nothing but guard.

Until—

“Hey, beautiful,” came Killian’s gruff, sleep-riddled morning voice as she was getting her bag out from under the bus. She glanced over and could only see him from the waist down; he was stretching and she got a good look at his tanned abs. (Not a bad sight, really.)

She stood and he gave her a sleepy, happy grin that she couldn’t help but return (and, with it, all thoughts of avoiding him disappeared).

He grabbed his bag and pointed in the direction of the food truck, where everyone else was headed. “Shall we, milady?” He offered his elbow to her,  _ that nerd _ .

Completely unable to help herself, she took it, and they skipped—actually skipped—to get breakfast.

The rest of the week passed in pretty much the same way: a warm greeting, a shared meal, and then to the grindstone on perfecting the show. There were a few performances in there as they worked their way back to Indianapolis, but otherwise, the focus was completely on World Championships. The corps was seeded the highest it had been in a while and wanted to keep that momentum going. On their part, Emma and Killian were never more in sync and were feeding off each other better than they had all season.

A part of her was really hoping he’d make a move on her, but there simply wasn’t any time for it, least of all once they finally got to Indy. They did get a chance to cheer each other on at the Individual & Ensemble competition (he finished first in saber, of course; her rifle duet with Elsa finished third), but then it was rehearsal-show-sleep-rehearsal-show-sleep.

(Not like it mattered, right? He was leaving; she kept having to tell herself that.)

Suddenly, it was the day of finals. They were sitting in 4th place and knew they had a decent shot at medaling, but that would mean jumping The Cadets, which was never easy. Because of that—and just the general gamut of emotions associated with it being the last day of tour and the last day with this group of people—nerves were high.

Rehearsal went great; too great, almost, because it made Cora cry and that  _ never _ happened. The guard bus was oddly subdued as everyone did their hair and makeup on the way from the high school they had camped out at to Lucas Oil Stadium (but the inevitable giggles returned once everyone started putting their costumes on). 

Warmup was solid. The brass tech gave an inspirational speech. The drumline instructor made the requisite “throwing babies” comments. And Ruby came around with high fives and “get it”s for everyone.

They were in the tunnel, waiting to take the field after Phantom Regiment, and Emma was in the zone. She was nervous, but it’s not like it wasn’t her first time here. Mainly, she was excited to give it one last go at the best performance possible.

( _ One last show with Killian _ .)

“Hey, Emma, you ready?” As if he could read her thoughts, he sidled up to her, equipment cradled in his arms.

“Yeah, I am. You?”

“If you are, I am, Swan. I’ve yet to see you fail.” The genuine grin he gave her calmed any last nerves; they floated into the rafters as she smiled back at him.

“Get it, Killian.”

“Get it, Emma.”

The audience’s applause and the announcer’s enthusiastic sendoff of Phantom meant it was time to go. An idea formed in Emma’s mind while she was setting her equipment and wishing luck to her teammates;  _ it’s now or never _ .

From the very first note, she could feel the controlled energy that the corps had spent all season perfecting. It carried her all through the rifle feature, right to her simultaneous 6 with Killian when the prince and princess meet. It guided them through their duet, peaking in a perfect lift, and allowing her to have the necessary emotional break when the queen attacked. It flowed through her when she fought back—against the queen and everyone who’d ever doubted or left her.

And when she went to wake her prince with True Love’s Kiss, to the strains of the finale tune of the same name, it wasn’t just the stage kiss they’d practiced all season: she poured all that energy and emotion into kissing him for real—for all the times they hadn’t yet and all the times they probably wouldn’t. Maybe it was going overboard, but she had one chance to let him know how she felt and she couldn’t think of a better way.

When her lips met his, she felt his initial shock of surprise, but it quickly went away and was replaced by his hand in her hair, pulling out her ponytail (which wasn’t in the show but whatever). She made sure to still break away at the choreographed spot, and despite the very obvious stars in his eyes, he still tugged on the right spot on her dress to reveal the red one underneath.

As much as both would have liked to enjoy the kiss’s afterglow, they still had an ending flag feature and dance piece to get through, so she pulled him up like always and they rejoined the rest of the guard, digging deep to find that last bit of energy to get through the end of the show.

The flags had never looked so good, the drums had never played so clean, and the brass had never been so loud from where Emma stood on the field by the time they got the final pose. When the last note sounded and she stood there in Killian’s arms, watching as the audience got to their feet, she couldn’t think of a time in her life when she’d been as happy, proud, or relieved.

There was no time to talk right after the show, as they had to quickly get their equipment and leave the field, but as soon as they were rolling flags in the parking lot—everyone even more energized after this run-through than the one in Atlanta—Killian found her and, without a word, pulled her aside. 

“What the bloody hell was that?”

For a second, she wasn't sure if his brow was arched in anger or something else, but the grin that crept across his face gave her the answer. 

“I was just...tired of waiting,” she answered, honestly. “And I know you're going home after this and we’ll probably never see each other again and—”

She was cut off by another searing kiss. His lips on hers and his firm chest against her were all she was aware of, and her hands quickly found their way into his (sweaty, but gorgeously disheveled) coif. A few whistles, followed by the sound of drumsticks on a drum head, told her that someone had just made a few bucks, but she didn't care; she was in her own bubble of bliss until he broke free a moment later. 

“I suppose this is a good time to tell you that I'm not leaving, eh?”

“What?” His statement combined with a stoppage in kissing had her disoriented. 

“I'm staying in the States. I'm not going back to England.”

“Seriously?” She could only think of a couple times in her life she'd heard better news.

“I'm all yours, Swan.”

“Lineup for retreat!” David's voice cut through the buzz around them, but this time, the moment wasn't cut off—it was just beginning. 

Not half an hour later, they were back on the field in Lucas Oil, assembled in blocks with all the other 11 finalist corps (Carolina Crown was on one side; Santa Clara Vanguard on the other). She was almost more nervous for awards than she had been for the performance, but she was next to Elsa, and they exchanged encouraging hand squeezes as needed. Killian and Mary Margaret were with David and all the other drum majors and captains across the front sideline; she could tell from the tense of his shoulders that Killian was equally nervous, only to then realize a) that she knew him well enough to recognize that; and b)  _ just what were they thinking covering his fine ass up with that jacket? _

The first handful of corps’ scores and placements were announced. Even though she knew the chances of them being in the bottom half were slim, crazier things had happened. 

“In 6th place…” her heart rate picked up, and she sighed in relief when it was SCV. 

In fifth place: Phantom Regiment. 

Now was the moment of truth. 

“In fourth place…” Her heart was pounding in her ears, as hard as it had been when they stepped off the field. 

“...The Cadets!”

An involuntary scream came from her. They medaled.  _ WE MEDALED _ . Boston had never medaled; hell, it was their highest finish in years. 

“In third place, the Boston Crusaders!”

She hugged Elsa—well, more like jumped on her—and watched as her friends up front went to accept their trophy and medals. 

She never imagined at the outset of the season that this was where they'd be; she had just hoped for a fun summer. But this? Everything? It was more than she could have dreamed. 

She was too busy crying happy tears into Elsa’s shoulder to pay attention to the top two (but later found out that Crown took first and the Blue Devils second). It wasn't until she heard “corps, you are dismissed” and began hearing and exchanging congratulatory wishes with everyone around that she realized the awards ceremony was done. 

It didn't take long for Killian to find her, dangling a shiny bronze medal from his fingers. “May I?”

She could only nod, and he slipped the ribbon over her head and settled it against her neck. She looked at it for a moment, felt the heavy weight of it in her palm, before looking back up at Killian. 

“We did it.”

No other words needed to be exchanged. And to underline it, he bent down, grabbing her around the legs and lifting her up, spinning and laughing.

When he stopped, she tilted down to kiss him again. But unlike the others, this wasn't rushed—it was slow and celebratory, knowing that they had all the time in the world.  

* * *

A year later, they were on the same field again. She had just finished her age-out season as a captain of Boston’s guard; he had finished his first as saber tech for the Madison Scouts. The past year saw them being neighbors, marching Sac together, and stealing kisses where they could on tour. 

(Oh, and somewhere in there—probably after their first rehearsal weekend at Sac—they exchanged “I love you”s for the first time.)

History was bound to repeat itself, so here they were, again engaged in another celebratory kiss: Boston had defended their bronze medal (with their edgy take on  _ The Planets _ ) and the new medal clanged delightfully against last year’s on Emma’s chest. 

Killian looked at her with unparalleled pride and love, positive he'd never seen her so beautiful as she looked with that hardware around her neck (and the accompanying glow of accomplishment on her face).

(There was also a piece of hardware in his pocket that he couldn't wait to add to her collection; but this one went on her left hand.)


End file.
